Disappearing act
The sky is changing.
You notice through the window. A wash of gold bleeding into pink.
You're mid-task. Mid-thought. Mid-something that feels important.
But sunsets don't reschedule.
They don't pause while you finish the paragraph.
They don't hold while you send one more message.
Five minutes. That's all it asks.
Five minutes that everything else can spare.
We treat the sky like it'll wait.
Like there's a version of later where the colours are still there.
There isn't.
You can finish the thing after.
You can't watch the sunset after.
Sunrises and sunsets don't reschedule. Everything else can wait five minutes. The sky can't.
